


Fix You

by lord_of_the_phantom



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: AU, Ballet, F/M, Thing - Freeform, idk - Freeform, it's a fat yikes right now, thanks liz for the concept, this is gonna be interesting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-27
Packaged: 2019-09-28 16:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17186240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lord_of_the_phantom/pseuds/lord_of_the_phantom
Summary: Christine and Erik are both broken. This wasn't the life they intended for themselves. However, through their discovery of love for each other, they may be able to fix each other...





	Fix You

The clock chimed midnight, yet Mademoiselle Christine Daae was nowhere near going to sleep. No, she stood on pointe in her apartment, counting to eight over and over, trying her hardest to get this part of her routine right. The opera opened in three days, and she was the only ballet girl who couldn’t get this bit of the second act ballet. She hadn’t danced in so long that it seemed she’d forgotten every step she knew in favor of hitting higher and higher notes each day.   
“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—augh!” she shouted as she stumbled out of her fouetté yet again. “I used to be able to do this!” She sighed and looked in the mirror, taking a moment to admire her falling bun and lopsided leg warmers. “Whatever,” she said, speaking to nobody but her reflection. “I’ll just come back to that part. Fouettés can always be fixed later.” She picked up the notebook Madame Giry made everybody buy and thumbed through the pages, searching for another circled section of the dance. She tapped her finger to the ink-stained page, causing it to crinkle. “That one ought to do.”   
She stepped back out to the middle of the floor, taking the dance at a slower tempo than usual for learning purposes. “Okay. I can do this.” However, she only made it through two pirouettes before she stumbled. “Maybe not.” She thought for a moment before a shelf across the room caught her eye. Before thinking this idea through any longer than she had to, she darted over to the shelf.   
She took hold of the shelf and went up on pointe, then slowly, carefully extended her leg outward until it was perfectly straight. Not even the slightest sign of wobbling. Christine let out a girlish giggle, though whether it was from her lack of sleep or the fact she’d gotten this right she didn’t know. Her heart soared as she balanced in her perfect arabesque for five seconds, six seconds, seven…she hadn’t done this for ages!   
She returned to flat-foot and smiled at herself in the mirror. She could do this. Then, not breaking eye contact with her reflection, she stepped away from the shelf and went up on pointe. Then, just as she had just moments before, she extended her leg, beaming at herself as she wobbled, but regained her balance. Everything was perfect…for about three seconds.   
An audible crack resounded through the little studio in the apartment. Christine, who was balancing so impeccably just milliseconds before, crumbled to the ground in a heap, clutching her ankle. She screamed, forgetting for just a moment that she did in fact have neighbors and that her window was open.   
“It’s going to be fine,” she assured herself as she looked down at her ankle, which was completely out of place, purple, and swelling more by the second. “Okay. Yikes. This is bad. But it’s fine. It’s fine. If I can just get to my feet, I can call someone, and I’ll get medical assistance. It’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”   
She untied her pointe shoe on her not broken ankle and tossed it across the room, not caring where it landed. That was a problem for another day, once she was able to dance again. Then came the real problem: removing her shoe from her now shattered ankle. She reached up to her ankle and touched the string, wincing as she pulled on the edge of it and unwrapped the ribbons. “Ow,” she murmured as she tugged the shoe off her foot, whimpering as she threw it across the room. She then gathered herself to her feet, using no fewer than three different objects to get her balance, careful not to put any weight on her ankle, and hobbled into her kitchen to get herself some ice. She opened her fridge, put some ice in a towel, and stumbled into her living room, collapsing on the couch. Only once she’d finally gotten comfortable was there a knock at the door…  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
Erik stumbled through the snow, his feet sticking in the ground every few steps. He couldn’t remember why he’d decided to move to the city, only that it had been the worst decision he had ever made. He’d been unable to get a job at the opera doing anything due to the deformity covering the right side of his face, and due to that, he couldn’t make rent at his old apartment and was evicted. Now, he was here: wandering the streets in the middle of the coldest December the city had ever seen.   
Two flickering porchlights caught his eye, and he ran up to one of the few free-standing houses spattered around the city. He took one deep breath, raised his fist, and rapped it against the wooden door. The sound echoed around, bouncing off skyscrapers and office buildings. Inside, a dog started barking and dashed to the door, scratching at it. Erik couldn’t help but smile as a golden nose appeared at the door.   
However, that smile soon faded as a woman stepped up to the door, peering at him with one beady eye. He gave her the tiniest wave, and she opened the door.   
“Who are you?” the woman asked, her voice harsh and breath visible in the cold. She looked him up and down, and Erik noticed that her eyes lingered a little longer on his deformity than the rest of him. It didn’t faze him. He just needed a warm meal and a place to stay. He didn’t care if they did it out of pity for the deformed man.   
“Erik Devillier. I need a place to stay. I was wondering if you’d perhaps consider opening up your home to me? It would just be one night, I promise. I just want to get out of the cold. Please?” He resorted to simple pleading, wanting nothing more to have a place to stay that night.   
The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry, I just…I don’t have…My husband won’t…”   
Erik bit back a sharp remark. He knew everything the woman said was a lie. She had plenty of room. She just didn’t want to help out a man with a deformity. She feared him. And why shouldn’t she? Everybody did. What made her any different?   
He nodded. “Alright. I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am.” He turned away and walked back out into the snow, prepared to return to his usual sleeping spot: the front step of an apartment complex down the road. He’d stayed there for months. Occasionally one of the residents would say hello to him or toss him a bit of food, which he always gobbled up.   
Erik climbed up onto the step and pulled his blanket out of the bush nearby, brushing the leaves off of it and trying to disregard the hole right in the middle. He sighed and placed his coat down on the concrete to soften it, then lied down on it and pulled his scratchy blanket over himself.   
He drifted off after a few minutes, but he hadn’t been asleep longer than three hours before a scream woke him from his sleep. He jolted upright. He knew that voice. That was none other than Christine Daae from room 319. She surely didn’t remember him, but he recalled her kind words to him one day when he first began resting on the step of her building.   
Erik stood up, and without a second thought, ran inside. He had to help her. She was kind. And she was hurt. He couldn’t let one of the few people who were kind to him get hurt. He opened the elevator, tapped the button with a three on it, and waited for it to arrive at the floor he needed, wishing it would go faster. Finally, the elevator shuddered to a stop and the door opened with a chime. He ran out and followed all the signs to room 319.   
He stood in front of her door, and just before he knocked, he wondered if this was really a good idea. Christine didn’t remember him. She’d be terrified of him. She’d refuse his help.  
But then again, he couldn’t just stand by while she potentially got hurt.   
So, against his better judgment, he raised his fist to the door for the second time that night and knocked.

**Author's Note:**

> the summary's under construction. also this fic sucks. sorry y'all.


End file.
